


Paved With Good Intentions

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:32:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12363783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: GLOW goes on the road.





	1. Chapter 1

_Ruth_

The minibus squeaks onto the parking lot, Sam at the wheel with his customary cigarette dangling.

 It was probably white, once. Years in the Californian sun have yellowed the paint, red rust filling in the gaps. The engine rattles like a tank until Sam kills the ignition. A belching cloud of black smoke escapes the exhaust. It seems a minor miracle the bus has made it to the gym from the depot — restarting might actually require divine intervention. When he kicks open the driver’s door it squeals protest, hanging crooked on corroded hinges.

“Morning ladies,” he says, without a hint of irony, “your chariot awaits.”

Ruth shoulders her backpack with the grim determination of a soldier shipping off for war but no one else is moving. Five other mouths are hanging open in shock.

“Sam,” says Melrose, “you have _got_ to be fucking kidding us.”

“What?” he scowls. “So, she’s got a few miles on the clock. She’ll get us where we need to go.”

“We’d be better taking my limo. Or walking.”

“Look,” he snaps, losing patience. “The more I spend on transport, the less I can pay you. Does it make more sense now? Will you just get in already?”

Melrose is still shaking her head. “Fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Come on,” tries Rhonda, smiling mischievously. “It’ll be like a road trip.”

“I love road trips,” Carmen adds, picking up her rucksack with one hand and Melrose’s zebra-print holdall with the other. “It’ll be fun.”

Behind her, Jenny and Arthie exchange a doubtful look, but they shoulder their bags too.

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s it,” chivvies Sam, finishing his cigarette as they climb aboard. In an undertone to Ruth he adds: “You still okay to navigate?”

“Sure.” It’s already roasting hot inside, the passenger seat sagging with age and wear. “Um, where are your maps?”

“Check the dashboard,” he says, turning the ignition. The engine makes a noise of mechanical distress, but liberal application of the choke sees her finally turn over. “Yeah,” he says, ludicrously proud of himself for this small victory. “Let’s do this, ladies!”

The dash finally pops open, elderly gum wrappers and an empty cigarette carton falling out. The only map is a Los Angeles tourist guide, printed in 1973.

“Uh,” she manages.

“We’ll be fine,” he demurs, as she waves it under his nose. “We’ll pick up a new one on route.”

“Right,” she says, not believing him for a second. The cabin smells of diesel fumes already, and the radio is stuck on a country and western channel.

This is Hell, she realises. She’s signed up for two weeks of actual Hell.

He releases the handbrake and they roll out and on their way.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I dunno – stocking your bunker for nuclear winter?” He’s tapping his foot as he pumps gas into the van, in lieu of another cigarette.  

She rolls her eyes. “Water. For when we inevitably break down in desert middle of nowhere. And a map printed in the last decade. Hardly frivolous.”

“Alright, fine.” He squints, trying to see inside the kiosk. “Are they done in there yet?”

“I’ll go check on them—” But there’s no need. Melrose, of all people, is urging the crew back to the bus, an unlikely mother hen.

“You good?” Sam checks.

“Much better now,” she returns. Her grin makes Ruth uneasy, as does the suspiciously _heavy_ looking shopping bag in her hand.

She takes her seat and unfolds the map while Sam pays, resolving to ignore the suspicious clinking noises from behind. It’s not a school trip, after all, it’s up to them if—

“Drama nerd,” says Melrose, not unkindly. “You want a shot?” She passes a plastic cup through the seats, and Ruth takes a sip before her sensible self can have a say.

“Ugh,” she winces, in spite of herself. “That’s… pretty strong stuff.”

“I can’t recommend drinking alcohol in this heat,” says Arthie, looking worried. “You should probably have some water...”

“Here,” says Ruth, sharing a look of relief with the other voice of sanity on the bus. She passes back a bottle. “I’ve got plenty.”

The door squeals as Sam returns, pulling himself into the driving seat with a groan. “Alright. Time to hit the road.” He rubs his hands together and turns the ignition. The diesel smell is stronger than before, but it seems the bus starts a little easier. “Which way, Ruth?”

“Uh, uh,” she panics, trying to find their place on the map, “I think we should, uh, just hang on a minute—”

He turns left onto the road, shaking his head. “Relax, Marco Polo. I know the way to San Francisco.”

* * *

“Ooo thinkin’ about our younger years…”

“There was only you and me…”

“We were young a wild and freeeee!”

Sam shakes his head at the chorus from the back seats. “Jesus Christ. Are they high?”

“Not yet,” Ruth says, louder than she intends. To be fair, the rendition is at least tuneful with Melrose and Rhonda dominating the vocals.

“I think I’ll take that country and western shit over this.” He reaches for the radio dial, the bus veering alarmingly as he does so.

“Hey, I’ll—I’ll see if I can fix it!” Ruth yelps, resisting the urge to grab the wheel. The dial is truly gummed up, but gentle persistence eventually yields results – twinkling banjo turning to hissing static and then a rock and roll guitar riff.

_“Now that ain’t workin’ – that’s the way you do it,”_ sings the radio _. “Lemme tell you: those guys aren’t dumb…”_

Sam grunts appreciation, rolling the volume dial up. For a moment Ruth relaxes back in her seat, the wind whipping through her open window smelling of dust and hot tarmac; the spirit of the road—

The feeling of Americana freedom is broken by a retching noise. She turns, to see Jenny dry-heaving into the gas-station carrier bag.  

“Hey, Sam,” calls Rhonda, “can we stop for a minute?”

* * *

Ruth wakes with a jolt, closing her mouth just before she drools down her shirt. The sun is setting, pinking the sky and painting the rocky hills in red and gold. It’s beautiful, and for a moment she blinks in awe of the desert twilight.

Sam is hunched over the wheel, the end of his cigarette glowing orange in the gathering gloom. She twists in her seat to see the others are all asleep apart from Arthie, lost in the sunset as she was with her headphones on.

“Are you okay?”

The cigarette twitches. “I’m fine. Sleep well?”

“Sorry,” she starts, “I should have—”

“It’s fine.”

She watches him for a minute, piloting them on towards a sodium haze in the darkening sky she imagines is the city. Most of the time Sam is… hapless and difficult at best. It’s almost strange to see him like this; shadows of her father at the wheel of family road-trips, capable and constant.

“What?” he asks, breaking the spell. “Why are you staring?”

“Nothing. I’m not—” she manages, waving her hands. “Where are we?”  

The end of his cigarette flares as he takes another drag. “Just off the I-5. I can’t get the bus up over fifty. Probably another hour or so to the motel.”

“ _Long_ day,” she says, blowing up her cheeks.  

He looks askance. “Would have been shorter if we hadn’t had to stop so much.”

“I know, I know…”  She casts about for a change of subject. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth at last, shaking ash out of the window. Glowing embers tumble over the cracked tarmac of the highway, winking out in the wing mirror. “Hope that Florian made it up here with the ring. Set up at the club, put on the show. You think you guys can do that?”

“We can do it,” she says, feigning confidence.

“Mmm” he replies, unconvinced.


	2. Chapter 2

_Carmen_

“Hey, are we… Where are we?” says Melrose, cracking one eye to take in the dismal parking lot of the motel.

“I think this is where we’re staying,” replies Rhonda. “Sam and Ruth went to get keys…” She turns to Carmen, smiling. “Still want to share a room?”

“Absolutely.”

She watches out of the window in the sleepy silence, until two figures emerge from the reception. Backlit, she can’t see their faces, but she recognises Sam’s slightly duck-footed gait and Ruth’s wildly gesticulating hands.

Sam pulls open the bus doors. “Alright ladies,” he says, “listen up. Room keys. Don’t lose them because there aren’t any spares. Be ready for ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

They take the keys and escape the bus one by one, yawning and stretching. “Where are _you_ going?” asks Melrose, as Sam clambers back inside.

He gives her a look. “Away. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. It’s fine, I get it. None of our fuckin’ business, right?”

“Right,” he says, starting the van with an ominous rumble.

“You gonna be okay?” Ruth checks, sounding concerned.

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ. _Yes_. I’ll see you all at ten. Try not to do anything ridiculous between now and then.” With that, he departs in a black cloud of dying engine smog.

Melrose folds her arms. “Fifty bucks says that’s the last we see of him for the next three days.” She sniffs. “Meet back here in ten?”

“What… for?” asks Arthie, earning herself a sympathetic look.

“Campfire and s’mores. What do you think? To go out.”

“I don’t think—” starts Ruth.

“Yeah, big surprise,” Melrose cuts across. “Everyone else, ten minutes, right?”

“What do _you_ think?” asks Rhonda, as they cross the pot-holed car park to their room across the square.

She smiles, unlocking their door. “I mean, we slept a lot on the bus. A little fun can’t hurt, right?”

Rhonda grins back in response, flicking the lights on. It’s not a million miles from their room at the _Dusty Spur_ , with one key exception.

“Uh, there’s only one bed.” It’s a big double, but still.

Rhonda drops her bag down on the brown coverlet. “Does it matter?” she says, breezily. “I know you don’t snore.”

The knot of tension in her chest loosens. Rhonda has an uncanny knack for doing that. “You’re right. I mean, at least there’s a mattress.”

“That’s the spirit.”  

The others are all waiting when they return to the car park, even Ruth, although she looks to be in two minds about it.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Ruth lies, “yeah I’m… I mean, it’s just one drink, right? We work hard all the time and we’re here in San Francisco. We deserve to cut loose. A little.”

“Actually,” replies Carmen, “I’m pretty sure we’re in Oakland. I’ve been to San Francisco a few times before with my Dad and we haven’t crossed the bay.”

“Oh. I’m sure Oakland’s… just as nice though…”

 “It’s the murder capital of California,” interjects Arthie. 

“Oh,” says Ruth again, in a smaller voice. “Great.”

Two taxis pull into the car park, before the conversation can unravel any further. “Alright ladies,” says Melrose, in an uncanny impression of Sam. “Let’s get out of this shithole.”

* * *

Carmen arranges the covers while Rhonda brushes her teeth, trying to feel less awkward about the whole bed-share situation. Another oddity from growing up on the road with only her brothers for company, she supposes. Teenage sleepovers probably prepared all the other girls for this moment—

“I hope Sam’s okay.” Rhonda’s voice cuts through her introspection.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. I mean, he once took a backhand from my Dad. He seems pretty tough.”

A rueful smile. “Seems it.”

Carmen swallows, not sure it’s her business to know but asking the question anyway. “Are you and he still…? Um…” The sentence is surprisingly awkward to finish.

“Nah,” says Rhonda, taking sympathy. “But I don’t want him to see him suffer. You know? He’s good at making life difficult for himself.” She shrugs, as Carmen struggles to find a suitable reply. “Not my problem, I guess.” She settles into the bed. “What d’you reckon? I think this is even better than the mattress back home.”

“Er…”

“I’m kiddin’. I’ve got a spring right in my spine.” She wriggles closer, searching for a comfortable spot. Her back is now pressed against Carmen’s shoulder. “Oh, your side’s better. Much more comfy. G’night then.”

“G’night,” Carmen manages, frozen in place.

She should move, probably, give her friend some space. But somehow that seems even _more_ awkward than staying put, betraying the queasy anxiety the warmth of another body in her bed seems to have generated. Move, or don’t. The debate rages in her head until Rhonda turns to face her.

“If this is makin’ you uncomfortable—”

“No. No, it’s just another… first.”

“Well, trust me. You are _much_ nicer than, like, ninety percent of the people I’ve ever shared with.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

The compliment seems to settle in her chest, a prickling warmth that flushes her face and neck. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

Rhonda burrows back into the elderly mattress, the brush of her body now a comfort rather than a source of stress. Carmen relaxes, even leans into the shoulder pressed against her, as the world turns on towards morning.


End file.
